Her waist shook to my arm. She bowed her head,
Silent, with hands clasped and arms straightened:
(Just then we both heard a church bell)
O God! It is not right to tell:
But I remember well
Each breast swelled with its pleasure, and her whole
Bosom grew heavy with love; the swift roll
Of new sensations dimmed her eyes,
Half closing them in ecstasies,
Turned full against the skies.
The rest is gone; it seemed a whirling round--
No pressure of my feet upon the ground:
But even when parted from her, bright
Showed all; yea, to my throbbing sight
The dark was starred with light.
Of My Lady In Death
All seems a painted show. I look
Up thro' the bloom that's shed
By leaves above my head,
And feel the earnest life forsook
All being, when she died:--
My heart halts, hot and dried
As the parched course where once a brook
Thro' fresh growth used to flow,--
Because her past is now
No more than stories in a printed book.
The grass has grown above that breast,
Now cold and sadly still,
My happy face felt thrill:--
Her mouth's mere tones so much expressed!
Those lips are now close set,--
Lips which my own have met;
Her eyelids by the earth are pressed;
Damp earth weighs on her eyes;
Damp earth shuts out the skies.
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